Ab Imo Pectore
by Gosangoku
Summary: Why does he often turn up to class with bruises and bandages? Why does he care? — US/UK/US.
1. Act II: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

**Greetings, everyone!**

**That's right - I've started yet another Hetalia story. I know, I know, I'm exceedingly masochistic and need to slow down and focus on finishing fics before making more, but these blasted plot bunnies are poking me with burning hot metal poles and making me their slave. Therefore, I must write, write, wriiite! (Plus it takes my mind off of certain things, so.)**

**What? No, there's nothing wrong with me. Of course those bunnies are real! Why are you looking at me like that? They're real, damn it! GAH! You don't understand! This is way too much pressure!**

**Aside from how insane and Tweek-like I am currently acting, I had to write this. I wrote a miniature form of this fic for my America a little while ago and the idea has refused to leave me be, and subsequently it has resulted in me typing away more stories rather than essays. (Just kidding on this note however, as I have been suffocated in essays and homework and, more recently, coursework already, and so I have been very busy.) This is result of my procrastination, and I hope you enjoy it.**

**O-o-O-o-O**

**Title: **_**Ab Imo Pectore**_

**Rating: M (see warnings)**

**Genre(s): Romance, drama, angst, hurt/comfort, potentially mentions of others.**

**Warnings: Homosexuality and homoerotic situations, domestic abuse, sexual content, substance abuse (alcoholism and mentions of drugs), possibly more.**

**Main pairing: USxUKxUS.**

**Side pairing(s): unrequited?France/England, various others. Some pairings have smaller roles than others.**

**Extended summary: Arthur Kirkland, a twenty three year old English Literature and Language teacher, graduated at the age of twenty and worked at a high school in London for a couple of years before certain events involving his family lead to him being transferred to the United States. Soon after his arrival, he runs into an obnoxious French man demanding to know his name, and is soon caught up in the man's loving promises and sweet nothings...**

**With experience in the fields of love, lust, and betrayal, a student of Arthur's begins noticing certain eccentricities in his teacher's behaviour... Alfred F. Jones is intrigued.**

**O-o-O-o-O**

**[Dedicated to Suzume Chiyu.]**

_**Thank you.**_

**O-o-O-o-O**

**i. Act one, scene one**

The pure blue sky seemed to taunt him as he staggered down the pavement, panting and sweating uncomfortably in his excessive layers of clothes. He tugged senselessly at his collar and huffed, blinking quickly as he swayed slightly, the heat getting to his head and momentarily disorientating him. He shut his eyes and leaned against a brick wall covered in incomprehensible graffiti, regaining his composure and brushing off the sudden bout of dizziness. Finally, he managed to shake it off, and he peeled himself off of the wall and dragged himself down the pavement, dodging various other pedestrians and inwardly cursing at the loud drivers honking their horns and screaming in their road rage.

He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at the sweat that he collected on his fingertips. Fairly disgusted, he wiped the mositure on his trousers and tried to ignore the tickling feeling of sweat drippling down his face and the intense heat burning into his flesh as the sun beat down on him, utterly unyielding and merciless. Longing for London rain and brisk British days, he was torn between reminiscing in his sudden nostalgia and allowing his thoughts to derail. His past made him uncomfortable, even when not discussing it openly, and so, instead, he decided to analyse, in his head, the novel he was currently reading prior to his interview.

The United States was new to him, an entirely foreign place in which, despite sharing a common language, seemed explicitly diverse from his homeland. When his siblings had kindly informed him about how Americans shared taxis and actually started conversations with you rather than leaving you to bask in your sorrow as you read about the recent economic slump, he felt as if they were telling him horror stories. It was to be expected really; his siblings had always been fond of tormenting him in one way or another. As if they would stop just because he was going to leave the country for a long time.

They really didn't care about him at all. But he was accustomed to it, and lived up to people's expectations of him being an uptight, sadistic _demon_ of a man. Just as Hamlet had said, one defect can diminish the rest of one's virtues as people only ever focus on the negative aspects of people and society. If people wanted to remain ignorant and only read the cover and subsequently judge him based on rumours and tales, then so be it. It would be his own private autobiography that no one else would ever have the pleasure - or the misfortune - to share with him. They will never experience his journey, nor would they feel all of the torrents of emotion he had been swept up in when certain things had happened to him. Certain things that were best left unsaid, lest people steer clear of him even more. It was better to be pegged as insane than viewed as a murderer.

His steam of thoughts was abruptly cut off when he collided with someone painfully, his hurt shoulder being knocked into, and he staggered back, dropping his briefcase and falling back against a lamp post, clutching his shoulder tightly and clenching his eyes shut. He tried to remain still until the rivlets of pain stopped pulsating through his system, and then remembered to breathe. He could hear a voice, but he ignored it in favour of recollecting his brother, Liam, instructing him to breathe. In, out. In, out. In, out.

Daylight filtered back into his vision as he opened his eyes once more, only to jump back and knock his head against the post when he met concerned and inquisitive blue eyes. He stared back at the other man, remaining still and waiting for him to ask if he would say some typical English words.

And then the man spoke, voice a low timbre and evidently not American. "I am sorry to startle you, monsieur," he apologised smoothly, brows knitted slightly as he surveyed the Brit. Arthur just scowled back defensively, used to people thinking of him as an escaped mental patient or something. But then man just chuckled. "Ah, you are pouting. I am sure you are quite well, in that case," he said, straightening up and smiling a cocky half-smile down at the slouching Englishman.

Not responding, he leaned down and grabbed his briefcase. Keeping up appearances, he gave a stiff nod, before moving to speedily walk around the French obstruction, only to freeze when his wrist was grasped. He didn't turn around but remained tense as the other man's skin made contact with his own, and he swallowed thickly.

"Are you not going to at least inform me of your name? You did barge into me, after all," he said, sounding increasingly obnoxious by the moment.

"Excuse me," he replied icily, emerald eyes glinting as he glared defiantly into self-assured blue. "But it seemed to me like you were the one who ran into me. If anything, you owe me an apology. However, I shall not insist upon it. In spite of that, I do not feel I am indebted to you in any way, and therefore I shall not provide you with my name, _monsieur_." He nodded and slipped his hand out of the shocked man's grip and began walking down the pavement, keeping an inner mantra to keep his held held high to maintain a confident manner about him. He may have some self-esteem issues, but he was a bloody good actor.

However, the God he had once believed in seemed to hold a grudge against him, for the French twat suddenly appeared beside him, striding with the utmost carefree confidence about him that he himself could only wish to possess. Huffing quietly to myself, he increased his pace slightly, only for the other bloke to do the same.

Grinding his teeth together, he hissed, "What do you _want_?"

"Your name, mon cher," the bastard replied genially, smiling languidly, completely arrogant and self-absorbed and safe in the knowledge that he'd get names, phone numbers, addresses...

"Yours first," the shorter man demanded gruffly, tightening his hold on his brief case, but knowing he probably wouldn't use it. He couldn't hurt people. Hurting people was bad. But it was okay to be hurt.

"Fiesty," French Guy said, chortling, and then smirked slightly again. "I like that. Very well. I am Francis Bonnefoy," he murmured, exaggerating his introduction by bowing and moving to kiss the Brit's hand, but he drew back hastily and took a step back, glowering warningly. Seemingly slightly bemused, but unperturbed, the man straightened up and smiled. "Et toi, cher?"

He hesitated momentarily, but he knew he shouldn't do that. It was bad to display reluctance; it gave other people an advantage. "Arthur," he muttered, and then moved to skirt around Bonnefoy - what kind of name was that anyway? - but, once again, the man began to walk with him. He groaned and scowled darkly. "_What_?" he spat.

"Don't you have a surname?" Frenchie insisted on probing further, evidently. What a prick. Arthur was tempted to give him a good punch in the face (or a kick in the balls), but he didn't want to get a bad reputation before he even landed the job he was applying for.

Taking in a deep breath and counting to ten slowly in his head, Arthur set _Francis_ a stoney scowl once more and hesitantly extended his hand. "Arthur Kirkland," he murmured crisply. "Nice to meet you, Frog - erm, Francis Bonnefoy."

Bonnefoy smiled a deceptively charming smile and shook the Brit's hand amiably, but the odd glint in his eye made Arthur think of some corrupt sort of businessman. Nonetheless, he upheld his passive disposition and dismissed his niggling worries. He had always been a bit of a paranoid person. His siblings had made sure to ingrain constant suspicions in him and force him to question everyone and anyone's motives, including his own.

Needless to say, he didn't even trust himself.

"I am pleased to meet you too, Arthur," Le Frog murmured lowly, and Arthur rolled his eyes. He just didn't want to bother with such irritating people. He was going to be babysitting high school kids, so why should he have to converse with adults who maintain the mentality of a toddler as well?

"Charming," he muttered, hastily drawing his hand back out of Francis's grasp as if he had touched something vile, and then reluctantly met half-mast blue eyes. He frowned, attempting to analyse the man's features or unconscious habits. He had taken Psychology as an A Level**(1)** at sixth form**(2)**, and so he knew a little bit about the way people acted and what they do. But this man seemed so... disguised. The lack of clarity didn't perturb Arthur too much, however, as he was also accustomed to searching for deeper meanings that were hidden beneath the surface. Besides, it wasn't like he was going to see this strange man again. He was just another passing stranger who he would forget within a few days. That's the way life worked. He pulled himself out of his thought forcefully and nodded at Francis. "Well, I'd best be going now. Good day," he offered stiffly, maintaining civility despite how uncomfortable he felt.

"Hopefully I shall see you again soon, mon cher," came the quiet response, and Arthur shivered at the tone, turning around again and looking into his eyes as if assuring that the man was human. He received a mocking smile in return, and the French man turned away. "Take care, Arthur." And he resumed walking down the street as if he had never stopped, and as if he had never run into Arthur. A mere grey silhouette of a figure disappeared into the distance down the road, and Arthur felt heavy. He shook it off hastily, however, and reprimanded himself for his odd feelings. What was he, a woman?

Already banishing the strange encounter from his mind, he continued on his way, weaving in and out of many people who kept their heads down and didn't acknowledge him.

_It just goes to show how insignificant we all are..._

**i. Act one, scene two**

Bright luminescence shone through the glass windows and Arthur winced, turning away from the blinding illumination, blinking the light out of his vision and squinting as he skulked down the bland calcimine hallway. The only source of colour were displays that were most likely work of the students at the school. The Brit paused before some of the work presented, lips twitching at the use of bright hues of the colour spectrum and less tham amateurish drawings from the younger years. He made his way down the long hallway, his rather old and weary shoes occasionally squeaking against the scuffled floor, covered in footsteps and old chewing gum; he examined some older students' work. Their work consisted primarily of writing as opposed to the youngers' crudely drawn pictures, and he could see several essays pinned to the board. Disinterested in the scientific ones, he merely skimmed over those, apalled by the lack of grammar or structure, and searched instead for English work.

Upon noticing _Of Mice and Men_ in the title of one of the pieces, he immediately began reading it. It held many valid points, along with some detailed analysis and original interpretations whilst constantly linking back to the title of the piece, a question about the themes of the book. The spelling wasn't magnificent, but the grammar was more than satisfactory, and he was surprised by the B grade the piece had. Sure, the spelling let the overall essay down slightly, but it was a fantastic piece of work that Arthur surmised deserved an A- at the very least. He noticed the name on it - Matthew Williams - and logged it away in his mind for future reference. If his job was completely secured, he would be sure to find the teacher responsible for the grade and give them a lecture about their derisory judgement.

Lifting his arm, he checked his watch and sighed. He was still fairly early in spite of his irksome encounter, but he didn't really have anything to do or anywhere to go. The familiarity of the whitewashed hallway and the ominous silence provoked him to move on and find some more people to surround himself with. He wasn't fond of being confined with others, but he hated being on his own in silence even more. So, thoughts drifting off to _The Catcher in the Rye_, he thoughtlessly glided along towards his destination.

As he mused over the novel and recollected the events of how the protagonist, Holden, became the 'fallen', and his sister resumes his old position of the 'catcher', he couldn't help but share Holden's bittersweet feelings. It was as if he was nearly on top of the world at one point and, so quickly, everything crumbled beneath him, and the person he had taken care of had assumed his position as he fell deeper into darkness and depression.

Arthur wished he couldn't empathise just as much as he did.

Wondering why he always managed to trap himself in the past and berating himself for even linking such a fine piece of literature with his own average, lacklustre life, he twisted the handle of an off-white door before him and lowered his gaze as the other occupants instantly glanced up to see who had entered. He heard a couple of snickers, followed by a few whispers, and he refrained from rolling his eyes. Who said that being an adult meant being mature? Honestly, he had met _children_ more subtle than these candidates. If they beat him to the job, he would get drunk and do a hula dance, and then tape it and send it to his siblings to post all over the Internet.

...No. No matter how passionate he was about something, he would never allow his siblings to have anything to blackmail him with. At least, nothing more than they already had. Fucking baby photographs... Why did people like capturing memories so much? It just made it harder to escape from the past...

He decided to stand, just in case anyone else entered and sat next to him. He wasn't prepared to converse with strangers, and he hadn't had good experience in the past with them. Within the first few minutes of a conversation - provided they lasted that long with him babbling about the weather, books, old school music and some obscure references - he was more often than not pegged as mentally unstable, hence why he hardly ever brought up fairies. But even discussing books that dealt with 'fairy tale creatures' made him seem slightly mad, even if he defended himself by informing the ignorant people that the author of the Sherlock Holmes books was very superstitious himself. He just wasn't very good at relating to people, it seemed. And he was fine with that. He was a reclusive man by nature, and often isolated himself, even when surrounded by others. He wasn't exceedingly shy or subdued - although he could be in certain circumstances - but he was just uncomfortable being himself.

He had always been quite the actor.

Sighing and feeling quite bored with nothing to analyse in the room aside from people, he opened his bag and searched for his book, sticking his tongue out slightly as he rifled through various documents and notes. Finally, he felt the spine of the novel, and drew out Mishima's _Confessions of a Mask_**(3)**. He leant against the wall, content, and began to read, happily lost amongst the lexical items washing over him as he imagined the deep emotional scenes occurring and putting himself in the protagonist's place as he joined him on his journey. He tuned out the other people in the room and simply focused on the story, unaware of his surroundings and losing track of time. Even as other candidates departed, looking either irritated or distraught, he didn't notice and proceeded with reading.

"Next," an irritated voice muttered, but it didn't reach Arthur's ears. He could scarcely hear a thing save for the noises his mind conjured up as characters progressed throughout the novel, thought patterns changing and actions growing more practiced and hesitant because they didn't want to make any mistakes. "_Next_," someone said again, sounding more agitated and snappish than before. However, the Englishman still didn't stir from his dazed concentration and his emerald eyes continued zipping heartily across the pages of his book, until it was suddenly snatched from his grasp.

Squawking indignantly, Arthur looked up and glared at the thief, the words immediately catching in his throat when he noticed stern cobalt eyes. "Ah..." he breathed, eyes widening as he stared at the man before him with something akin to awe. The other didn't notice, however; he was far too busy scrutinising Arthur's book, brows drawn together and lips pursed in a thin line.

"I do not like it when people ignore me," he murmured, voice still somehow clear and assuming despite how low it was. His eyes speedily glanced up from the pristine pages to meet Arthur's. "However, I must confess that I am an avid reader myself, and that I can understand what it is like to become caught up in such a novel." He shut the book swiftly and handed it over to the Brit in a fluid movement, Arthur almost scrambling for it so as not to drop it. He usually had more than satisfactory reflexes, but... "In any case, now that I have grasped your attention, sir, I would like to inform you that Julius will see you now." With that, he turned hastily on his heel and glided back over to his desk, but paused when Arthur spoke.

"Alfons...?" he murmured questioningly, almost not believing it, but unable to wholly dismiss the notion because who else had long blond hair and stern cobalt eyes? He hadn't seen the man in question for a very long time - approximately eighteen years, in fact - but he couldn't just let this situation slip away, just in case.

The taller man didn't turn at first; no, instead he appeared more overwrought than before and didn't end the tense atmosphere. Countless possibilites popped up in Arthur's mind, and he began berating himself for even opening his mouth. He wondered if the man thought he was some sort of mentally deranged lunatic. He wouldn't be too surprised, really, as that was what most people surmised.

"Have we met?" the man suddenly asked briskly, sounding very defensive to hide any anxiety he might have. He turned quickly, as if prepared to attack prior to the stranger who seemed to have known his name, and then paused again. He scanned Arthur's face, who was still too shocked to be eloquent, and then blinked slowly, shoulders dropping slightly and offering a less antagonistic position. "You are..."

"Arthur Kirkland," the Englishman breathed, and he knew he would kick himself later for acting so out of character. But, bloody hell, if this was actually Alfons - he still found it hard to digest - then he should be granted the right to be slightly inarticulate. He had last seen the bloke when he was _five_, afterall. Alfons was one of the children he stayed with when he was younger, along with his brothers and various other unwanted children.

Suddenly, broad but slender and pointed hands grasped his shoulders, and the larger man stared imploringly at him, scrutinising every last detail of the Brit with his perceptive hawk-like eyes. "Is that really you?" He seemed incredulous himself, and Arthur couldn't blame him. He never thought he would see any of the people from his past again, aside from his siblings. Seeing this - this _man_ after his unexpected disappearance was just... disconcerting. Arthur briefly debated the man being a ghost; a hindered spirit burdened with deeds undone and was unable to pass on because, bloody hell, Alfons had been just one of the children who had suddenly vanished without a word.

He thought they were dead.

Arthur just gaped at him, staring with wide eyed wonder, and snapped his mouth shut when the man's lips twitched slightly, appearing vaguely amused in spite of the severity of the situation. "I..." Arthur began, throat dry and unable to form a response. He was usually a exceptional with communication, having an extensive vocabulary as well as finesse regarding charm and manners. He was simply caught off-guard and, honestly, who could blame him? He already felt in need of a strong drink and vowed to have one later.

"Of course it's you," Alfons breathed, shaking his head in disbelief in spite of his statement. "I'd recognise those fiery green eyes anywhere." He tightened his grip on Arthur's shoulders before pulling away, but the younger man wasn't perturbed or insulted by his behaviour as Alfons had always been a bit of an isolationist. He was comfortable around him because of that, as Arthur was also one to shut off his feelings and ignore others around him. "What is it, Arthur? You've never been one to be so silent," the taller man murmured jokingly, and Arthur noticed how silky and flowing his voice still was, if quite a bit deeper than it used to be. "As I recall, you were very much loud in your arguments with your siblings and other children."

The Brit blushed and stuttered slightly, floundering for a response. He had always admired Alfons as a child, and had never been able to speak to the man properly despite how similar they were. One of his brothers, Craig, had half-jokingly announced that Arthur had a crush on him. Needless to say, a fight broke out and Arthur was landed with a sprained right and a black eye. He gave as good as he got, however, managing to split his brother's lip and dislodge his right arm. He wouldn't say those were good days, but it wasn't often he could bust up his brother, so...

"In any case," the elder man said very suddenly, drawing Arthur out of his state of nostalgia. He seemed to be becoming an old man, what with how he reminisced these days. "It is very good to see you again, Arthur. But you are now free to go..." he trailed off as a loud bang filled the room, and the German twitched in irritation. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he seemed to be counting to ten in his head. However, it didn't appear to help as a scruffy looking brunet man danced over to him merrily and slung a muscled arm across his shoulders.

"Alfons, what on earth is taking you so long?" he demanded with a mischievous grin that suggested he didn't care as much as his words suggested. "You're usually very obsessive compulsive about order to the point of being autistic!" he exclaimed, laughing a boisterous laugh that made the blond men twitch in annoyance.

Alfons elbowed him in the stomach, but the larger man didn't seem to be bothered by it. "Julius, this is Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. I used to attend the same boarding school as he did," he explained, and suddenly the other man's brown eyes flickered with some sort of deeper feeling as he glanced at Arthur.

The Brit squirmed, uncomfortable underneath the eyes so seemingly full of depth in spite of the man's apparent idiocy, and fought to maintain eye contact as he was scrutinised. Alfons subtly nudged Julius, and the brunet offered a smile, just as big but not as loud and ingraciating as the prior. "Any friend of Alfons's is a friend of mine," he said, offering his hand to Arthur, who blinked at him stupidly for a moment before flushing and moving to shake his hand, only to be yanked towards the gruff man's chest. He yelped when heavy hands pat his back, and lurched away, scowling at the brunet man, who grinned back at him toothily.

"Julius," Alfons snapped, sounding both irritated and exasperated, as if this sort of behaviour happened far too often. Icy eyes zipped back to Arthur, and he sent him an almost apologetic look. "I apologise for him, Arthur. He can't control himself..." He shot a cold glare at the taller man, only to receive a bright grin in response. Alfons rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately, this will be the man interviewing you because, although he is... _him_, he's also qualified."

"Aww, Alfons!" Julius cried happily, looking positively delighted, but also slightly sadistic in a teasing manner. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said about me!"

"Don't be absurd, Julius," the blond replied with a false amiable tone, "I once said you looked like Hagrid." With that, he carefully grasped Arthur's arm and hauled him over to another room, Julius behind them with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

The Brit glanced back at him as he squawked: "But I've shaved!"

**Act one, scene three**

He sat, legs crossed and posture stiff and absolutely correct, staring straight ahead as Julius's penetrating brown eyes bore into his emerald ones. He swallowed, brows drawn together as he willed himself not to tremble under the unwavering gaze of his potential employer. He clenched his fists on his legs, clutching the material of his trousers with his fingertips. _Calm yourself, Arthur_, he told himself firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark ones before him. _Permitting your fears to get the better of you will not allow you to prove yourself. Stiff upper lip, Arthur... Stiff upper lip._

"So, then," the man began, deep voice seeming to reverberate through the room and echo off of the walls. Arthur tensed, eyes growing wider as he waited for the man to finish his sentence. "You're Arthur..."

"Yes," he answered quickly, and then flushed slightly at the impromptu answer. He ducked his head and missed the amused smile that flickered across the older man's face.

Julius hummed, stroking his stubble thoughtfully, giving the impression of having a conflicting inner debate. He enjoyed how he could prolong the torture and make the young Brit tense, lick his lips, glance around and back again. He could see how hard the smaller man was trying to seem confident. _How futile_, he thought, more than a little entertained. But he knew that Alfons would falcon punch him for messing with the guy, especially since he seemed to care for Arthur. Still, that didn't mean he wanted to go easy on him... And so, offering a smile, he asked: "Who are you?"

Forest green eyes flickered back up, surprised by the question, and he tilted his head. Expecting the anticipated and popular answer of another unknown name, Julius himself was astonished by the response, "I don't know."

Blinking, he raised a brow. Leaning on his desk and sliding forwards to stare into the Englishman's strangely guarded, suspicious, but ambiguous and inviting eyes, he tilted his head. "You don't know," he repeated, more of a statement than a question. He offered a smile, although it was more strained and curious this time. "Please elaborate, Mr. Kirkland."

Arthur let out a small sigh, deflating a little before sitting up properly and assuming incriminate posture that Alfons would be awestruck by. Julius couldn't help but hide a small chuckle at the young man's theatrics. He was dramatic in his own neurotic name, it seemed. "Well," the Englishman said, voice just as difficult to distinguish as his eyes: enigmatical and rather cryptic. _Behind all beauty hides more pain... _"Nobody truly knows themselves... Indeed, I doubt that anyone can ever know another, but it seems to be even more difficult to comprehend oneself**(4)**." His eyes fluttered closed, and he seemed to be debating on his choice of words. Interest inspired, Julius readily awaited the man to start speaking again. "I believe..." he murmured softly, voice gentle and laced with melancholy, and suddenly Julius wondered if the guy was an actor. Or gay. "I believe that no one would really want to know themselves..." Bright eyes opened, and a poignant smile decorated his lips. "It would be frightening, don't you think?"

_Frightening...? _Julius pondered, staring in amazement at the Brit before him, bewilderment and intrigue glittering in his own chestnut eyes. "Hmm," he hummed, unlacing his fingers and standing up swiftly, taking pleasure when the blond sputtered and hastily lifted himself out of his own chair. _How polite_, he thought, _Like a well trained dog. _He smiled secretively, lips twitching even more when he noticed the suspiscion glinting in Arthur's eyes. "Then, Arthur," he said happily, "Please allow me to refer to you as my step-son!"

"...I beg your pardon?" Arthur screeched, almost falling over the back of the chair when the brunet man suddenly said that. What a strange thing to say! Really, what sort of man...? "Geh!" he cried when he was pushed aside, blinking away the swirling colours of the room to see long blond hair filling his vision.

"Julius," Alfons hissed, fists shaking angrily at his sides. "I am going to _castrate you_!" **(5)**

**O-o-O-o-O**

**Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**This was going to be so much longer, but I'm going to Brussels (in Belgium) tomorrow with my Government and Politics class, and I wanted to get this up before then! But I promise I'll make up for it - the neck chapter is full of Prussia and hopefully America shall be introduced.**

**(1) An A Level is a qualification. You get an A Level from the ages of sixteen to eighteen. The first year (16-17) is an AS Level, and the second year (17-18) is an A2 Level. These are the qualifications you receive in English if you stay in education until the age of eighteen. My year was the last to have a choice whether they wished to stay or leave at sixteen. I chose to stay, evidently. But now it's fundamental to stay until you're eighteen here.**

**(2) Sixth form is sixteen to eighteen education. In the UK, sixth form is the equivalent of college, but college here isn't the same as college in America. American college = British university.**

**(3) Confessions of a Mask is a book... Wikipedia will explain it better than I, so just go there if you're curious. The title's a bit cliché but, hey, the content may outweigh that.**

**(4) I wasn't sure if it was "one's self" or "oneself"... Apparently, both terms are acceptable, but "oneself" is the oldest term, so I went for that...**

**(5) And thus, Rome/Germania is established. Because Arthur is so close to Alfons, Julius views him as his son. XD At least, that's what I've gone for. Writing Germania is fun. Eheh... I wasn't sure about his character. I see him as fairly similar to Arthur, but perhaps more mature and, although tsundere... I'm not sure if he should be a major tsundere who reacts violently, or a more mature tsundere. So, he may seem a bit bipolar. But then again, characters often seem to be a bit mental in my stories, ne?**

**I thought of so much for this... I wasn't sure if to write the story or not. I randomly wrote a mini snippet of something like this for my America about England being America's teacher, and Al discovers that he's being domestically abused...**

**Can I never write happy things? Bloody hell. Even Shakespeare wrote in the humour genre, and he's the writer of Hamlet!**

**Ah, speaking of which... There are reasons as to why my page breaks are depicting the acts and scenes. One reason is that it relates to literature, which is what England shall be teaching (because he'd obviously be good at it, and it's the only thing I am somewhat knowledgeable in), and a few other reasons. Reasons that your English teachers come up with and you think, "The author didn't intend for it to mean that - you're just reading way too deeply into things."**

**I am one of those teachers.**

**In a way.**

**I'm not your teacher.**

**But I mean... Oh, fizz crackers. Pop tarts. LEMON DROPS.**

**I'm such a BAMF~ Hehe.**

**Mouuu... I don't want to go to Brussels... I don't know anyone in Politics. The girls dislike me because I'm boring (and they've never tried talking to me), and if I converse with guys everyone will think I'm flirting. But I talked with my cousin, and he inspired me to ask one impassive guy, "So how do you look when you JIZZ IN YOUR PANTS?"**

**I want to make him smile. He just seems to emotionless. I know he isn't. Guu, stupid git. SMILE. I don't smile much, but I get uncomfortable when others don't...**

**But then again, I smile a lot with certain people. And I smile when I'm nervous. But I have crooked teeth despite having braces a few years ago. And my lips are always chapped and stuff 'cause I lick and bite them a lot. Raaawr.**

**Ahh... I really don't want to go on the trip tomorrow. I'm so ungrateful. But I don't want to leave. I won't have internet access. I know it's only two nights (ONLY? her mind repeats incredulously), but I don't get to talk to my America much, so... myu. Whatever. It won't be too long. But since the girls in my year are all staying together, I'll be with girls who are 17/18... I know it's only 1/2 years difference, but I'm scared. x.x If people my own age dislike me, why would anyone else want to acknowledge me... Ah, whatever, I have my DS and a Darren Shan book, so...**

**So...**

**I miss my America already. I'm getting way too worked up about this. I'm such a drama queen.**

**Uwaa...**

**Someone rescue me. ):**


	2. Act II: A Tale of Two Cities

**Hi again, guys... Typing this when exceedingly sleep deprived, cold and possibly sick 'cause I just got back from Belgium and holy penguins and cheese on a stick, it was bloody freezing. It poured with rain and I was utterly soaked three times. I'm still shuddering a bit and I can't feel my toes much so I thought, **_**What better time to carry on with a fic?**_

**I am a very logical and rational person.**

**O-o-O-o-O**

**Act two, scene one**

Smoke whisps filled the condensed air, dominating his vision as swirls of the clouds of particles formed a thick layer of what seemed to him to be a carpet. It was odd how he could see it. It looked almost as if it could be touched. It smelt strange though. He didn't like the smell of it. He had been surrounded by pollution and excessive carbon dioxide for his entire life, and he had had enough of it. He stuck his tongue out, making a gagging noise as the calloid infiltrated the area. He could almost taste the by-product, and so he took a swig of the liquid contained in his glass, blinking in bewilderment when he tasted nothing.

"Looks like you drank it all, mate," someone said and, after a few moments of deliberation, Arthur placed the German accent.

He blinked sleepily at the man, staring up at him from where his head was leaning against the cool bar. "Your eyes remind me of sunsets... but your hair makes me think of snowstorms..."

The guy blinked. Twice. "Uh... Is that supposed to be a pick up line? 'Cause, I'm sorry, I ain't gay." He paused, and then leant on his elbows, staring down at Arthur. "But you are kinda pretty for a guy. I guess. I mean, aside from those huge ass eyebrows." He grinned, waiting for the Brit to respond to his comment, and laughed heartily when a weak punch was delivered to his nose. Grabbing the limp arm, he tugged Arthur up onto the bar. "Man, you're such a lightweight. You hardly drank anything, I swear, and you're already practically dead to the world!" he exclaimed, shaking the man and laughing, oblivious to the incredulous stares of customers.

"M'not..." the blond murmured, stopping himself to hiccup. Then, blinking away the haze in his eyes, he continued: "'M not... a... ligh'..." He trailed off, seemingly having forgotten what he was about to say, and just leaned against the German. "'S hot," he grumbled against the bar tender's shoulder, utterly unaware of the eyes watching them hungrily from the other side of the bar.

"Uhh..." the white-haired man murmured, befuddled by the man's behaviour. He seemed like an uptight prude or something, and yet here he was... falling all over him! Not that he could blame the guy really. He knew he was pretty attractive. So, ignoring the female voice in his head making a spiteful remark about how _un_attractive he was, he held the blond by the shoulders and pushed him back. He grinned at the bright red flush across the man's cheeks. He was kinda cute, yeah, but, unfortunately, he... he lo- sort of... kind of _liked_ a woman who maybe detested him. Banishing those thoughts immediately, and hastily reassurring himself that she was just an insane banshee, he gawked at the Brit who appeared to be trying to remove his shirt. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

Clouded green eyes met his after a severe delay, and Arthur licked his lips. He shrugged, huffing in annoyance as he tried to remove his obstructive clothing. "'S hot," he explained again and, suddenly, the German bar tender noticed the ravenous eyes staring at the exchange between them.

"Aw, fuck," he whined, grabbing the blond man's arm and hauling him through the back door where no customers could witness his strip tease. "Oi, Bruder, get your ass back to the bar! I gotta take care of somethin'."

"You fed Gilbird only half an hour ago," a deeper voice grumbled from _somewhere_. Arthur glanced around, but everything was just a blur of colours... Somehow, it seemed kind of funny. "He will get fat if you..." He trailed off, pausing when he saw the man swaying in his brother's arms. "Gilbert."

"Ludwig."

"Why are you embracing a half naked man?"

"Ludwig, shut the fuck up, get out there, and serve the punters while I tend to this half naked man who I am _not_ embracing. All right, _Bruder_?"

"It is your life, I suppose... Just do not get me involved when he sues you for sexual harrassment..."

"I'm not gonna have sex with him!"

**Act two, scene two**

_Orange, yellow, brown, red..._

_Fire._

_Those are the colours of fire..._

_Get it away... Away..._

_It burns... Too hot... Get it away..._

_Fire... It's everywhere..._

_Mummy... Mummy... where are you? It burns..._

_Mummy... Somebody... Anybody..._

_Help..._

A gasp, a yelp, a groan. Red, silver, white. And then pain.

Arthur clutched his head tightly, eyes clamping together as he hissed, the agonising sensation in his skull all too familiar. He let out a whispered string of curses, and suddenly shuddered violently as a cold shiver ran up his spine. He tensed when he felt something cold brush against his shoulder, and found himself staring into pained crimson eyes. Moments later, a smirk appeared on the other man's pale face.

"You were pretty good last night, baby. Not as much as me, obviously, 'cause I'm awesome, but you sure do know how to suck—" Before he could finish his sentence, a hand was slapped over his mouth, and he gazed in confusion and amusement into a flustered, panicked Brit's face.

"Y-you're taking the piss, right?" Arthur demanded, glowering furiously and trying to mask his nervousness. His anger rushed right up to the surface soon, however, when the German man just laughed at him. _Obnoxious wanker...!_

"Calm down, man. Chill!" the albino ordered, waving his arms in a surrendering motion as he snickered. "'Course I'm just messing with you. Jeez, you look so young and yet you're acting like a fifty year old."

Venomous green eyes glinted, and the German was vaguely reminded of a bitter wet cat. "Fuck off," Arthur snapped, and then glanced around desperately. He folded his arms protectively across his chest and glared at the other man, attempting to assume a haughty posture and an aloof tone as he said: "I want my shirt."

Entertained by the neurotic man's behaviour, the other just grinned. "You threw up on it," he offered, basking in the momentary paling of the blond man's face, before he turned crimson again. He was so easily embarrassed! How fun!

"Th-then..." Arthur mumbled, eyes darting around the room.

Revelling in the situation, the bar tender feigned a long suffering sigh. He wasn't sure if he had succeeded, because the blond guy just looked exasperated and wary of him. Nonetheless... "Hey, man, it's cool. I'll lend you one of my awesome shirts," he offered. He wished the green eyes would light up hopefully, but the man just seemed even more suspicious. "On one condition."

Arthur didn't look surprised. "Go on," he muttered impatiently, much to the irritation of the sadistic German.

Clearing his throat and pushing Arthur slightly to the side, the red eyed man dashed forwards and jumped on the battered sofa that the Brit had recently woken up on. Puffing his chest out and sticking his arm in the air, he declared: "I want you to work here!"

A pregnant silence ensued as green eyes stared blankly into slits of triumphant crimson. With his arms still protectively covering his chest, Arthur muttered at length, "No."

Gilbert blinked, surprised, before assuming a better-than-thou posture and obtrusively pointing a finger in Arthur's face. "And why the hell not?" he demanded imperiously.

Batting the hand out of his face, the Brit scowled. "I've already got a job," he explained and, adding as a mental note, _almost..._

"You can have another," the albino retorted with a nonchalant shrug.

"I'd rather not work in a... What is this place anyway?" Arthur paused to glance around the room, but had no inclanation of where he was. He couldn't remember much... He recalled the interview vaguely, and Alfons had let him know that they would be in contact within the next couple of days. He was quite sure he had landed the job. There weren't that many who had made it through to the interviews, and, according to Alfons, they hadn't been very good. But perhaps he was just being nice... so maybe it would be worth having another job, just in case. Arthur knew he wasn't much good at anything really, and so it might prove beneficial...

The German raised a brow at the man's thoughtful gaze. "It's a bar," he replied, pleased to grasp the other man's attention again. He hated being ignored. "Me and my bruder run it together. A couple of others help us out when we're short-handed, but they have other jobs too. We could use another one on the team." He offered a cocksure grin, slid his hand under his nose and sniffed, and then spat into his palm. He held out his hand, smirking challengingly. "What do you say, pretty boy? Or are you too scared I'll out-awesome you?" He tilted his head and blew some of his snowy hair out of his face. "Here's the deal - you work here for more than a month, you get free drinks here every fortnight. Work here for more than three, you get free drinks once a week. More than six, and..." 

"Free drinks every day?"

"You kiddin'? I ain't giving anyone a deal like that!" He stroked his chin thoughtfully as Arthur watched, exasperated. "Well, we'll cross that bridge _if _we come to it. So, what's it gonna be?"

Arthur grimaced before glancing a doleful look at the albino's face. He let out a frustrated sigh and slowly untangled one arm from his chest, hesitantly spitting into it. Reluctantly, he held out his hand and reproachfully touched it to the other man's, pulling a face as their saliva touched. He could practically feel the bacteria... "Deal," he forced himself to snap, eyes clenched shut as he imagined all of those particles on their skin and—

"Great! Awesome!" Gilbert cheered, flashing a toothy grin along with a cheesy thumbs up. At the awkward silence that once more ensued, he blinked at the scowling Englishman and rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, you prude," he said, unbuttoning his shirt and holding it over Arthur's head teasingly, lifting it back up when the Brit moved to grab it. "Say, '_Please, Master Gilbert, you most benevolent, awesome_'—"

"No." Arthur grabbed the shirt and pulled it on, swiftly doing it up in a flash and crossing his arms protectively once again. Glowering at the sulking German, he let out a long suffering sigh and ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the feeling of it. He would definitely wash it later... Shaking off his thoughts and filing them for later, he glanced back at the albino, rolling his eyes at the petulant look on his face. "What do you want me to start?"

Almost instantaneously, the pout was wiped off of Gilbert's face, only to be replaced by another smug smile. Arthur couldn't decide which he found more annoying, but he supposed that a cocky wanker was better than a sulking one... He didn't want to befriend anybody too similar to himself. And so, he managed to make it through Gilbert's presumptuous speeches and repetitious nature in regards to his vocabulary with only a few sarcastic remarks.

**Act two, scene three**

The shape of a crescent moon smiled sadly at him from the sky, and Arthur found himself returning the melancholy expression. He had always been well acquainted with the moon, being somewhat of a nocturnal person by nature. He felt he worked better during the night, and generally felt... Well, he didn't feel _happy_ at night, but he felt more alive. During the day, it was as if he was simply a ghost, drifting through the routine set out by time and not taking anything in. The sights, the sounds, all of the senses were just the same. He slipped through life as if it was a maze of silk curtains. It was so easy to rip everything apart, to tear it all to shreds of useless material. Ugly fragments of what once was a beautiful thing.

But the sun... He found it difficult to smile at the sun. The sun was always smiling, and it could convince everybody that it was jubilant due to its radiant light and the rays that extended to various people, hoping to share its happiness. With the moon, it was so obviously poignant, but it was just that nobody really cared. But as for the sun, it could feign joy. Arthur found it too hypocritical to bring himself to smile back at the sun when he criticised it, and yet he too did the same, only without sharing the fake happiness.

And so, he staggered along down the street, his vision distorted and the holes in the road seemed to slither from one side to the other. Stumbling slightly, he held his arms out and found a wall to lean against. It felt solid and therefore safe, so he leaned against it, mumbling drunken slurs and garbled nonsense of tales of old against what he assumed to be bricks and cement.

Unknown names fell from his tongue as he rambled about things that might have or might not have occurred in the past, and the wall, stoic and non-judgemental, listened in silence to his empty words that spilt from intoxicated lips. And the wall didn't judge him, didn't reprimand him for his sorry state, didn't laugh at him or provoke him into doing stupid things that landed him in trouble. The wall simply did not perform actions aside from standing lifelessly, forced to oversee all of the events in the city, lest they were blocked by other walls.

Walls were everywhere: physical and invisible. They hid things. They concealed bitter families' squabbles and unwarranted business deals and just hid the lies everybody told or didn't reveal. Arthur had his own walls, built firmly around his entire being. He refused to allow anyone past the shields - refused to allow anyone to see him in a vulnerable state.

Besides, everyone was a part of the masquerade. The masks were their smiles, but all masks had holes: the eyes. Everyone wanted to see, but it also meant being seen. Nobody was completely steeled off from the rest of humanity. Nobody was safe.

"Mon cher," a voice suddenly said, interrupting his musings and just barging in like an uncheduled boat to a harbour. They sounded vaguely irritated, as if they had been attempting to garner his attention for a while now. But, movements sluggish, he barely had time to turn before someone grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. The momentum was almost enough to knock him off his feet, but he managed to stumble into a position one could pass off as standing, were it not for the swaying. "Mon ami, are you drunk...?"

Arthur tilted his head, raising his green eyes to meet the blurred outline of cobalt blue ones. Why the hell did some stranger care if he was slightly inebriated? The people back home would have revelled in it - tempted him into walking into traffic or luring him into a dark alley way. Thus, as was custom, he lurched forward as if he was about to be sick, and sharply raised his head to headbutt the guy in the chin. He heard cursing, and the grip on his shoulders was removed, and so he spun around to make his way down the street.

Every footstep that collided with the road beneath his feet sent a thump of agonising pain pulsing in his head. It was cold, and he was clad only in a shirt and trousers, and so his bare arms were tingling due to the lack of warmth. Thoughts jumped around in his head, catching together, and lyrics to modern and old songs snagged on each other and made his mind go into a sort of haze. All the colour was draining and only grey was left, along with a strange ringing in his ears.

**Act two, scene four**

The sound of fairies whizzing around him alerted him to his growing consciousness. Gentle but ticklish pokes at his exposed flesh caused him to squirm, curling in on himself as the fairies let out little huffs and sighs that altogether sounded more like a private symphony than an annoying wake up call. He was prepared for the soft sounds to lure him back to sleep, back into the world of dreams where the shadowed hands grabbed at his naked flesh and pulled him beneath the black water into sinister oblivion and words, words, painful words...

Then, unexpectedly, he heard a small chuckle. His brows furrowed in bewilderment at the foreign sound. Laughter was a strange thing to him, since this sound was more amused than taunting. He grumbled into his pillow and creased into himself more, burrowing beneath the lovely comforting warmth that was covering him.

But, alas, the snickering continued, pestering him a lot more than the delicate faries' sighs. And so, with much annoyance, he allowed angelic consciousness to probe open his eyes, and he was met by familiar blue...

Blink, blink.

He shot up, gawking and sputtering and flailing as the man at the end of his bed continued smirking, obviously entertained by the show. "Y-you!" Arthur screeched, voice shrill even to his own ears. He flushed deeply at he unmanly squeal, but couldn't help but fold his arms across his chest defensively. He refused to lower his gaze in fear of being seen as submissive, but instead glared defiantly at the man across from him. "Why the bloody hell are you in my flat?"

"Monsieur Kirkland, perhaps I should remind you that a 'flat' in America is more commonly referred to as an 'apartment'," the man offered, dancing around the main topic just to annoy the befuddled man further. His lips twitched as the thick eyebrows lowered over the wide, puzzled emerald eyes, and his thin, pale shoulders tensed in apprehension. "Relax, mon cher," he soothed, standing and approaching the bed, revelling in the way the fiery Brit plastered himself against the headboard behind him. "Nothing 'appened. I found you last night, wandering around and spurting nonsense." His eyes sparkled, and Arthur frowned, not liking the glint hidden within them. "You should be thanking me really."

Arthur scowled back darkly, scrutinising the enigmatic _weirdo_ standing before him, looking all presumptuous and annoyingly _French _with his blond hair tied in a ponytail and the stubble on his chin and his bloody fucking chest hair and why the hell doesn't he shave? It's not the bloody sixties. "Merci fucking beaucoup," Arthur mumbled sullenly, unused to saying appreciative words.

But the stupid man just smiled, eyes shimmering with _something_ hidden behind them. Arthur knew that everyone wore masks, but he could usually figure out what kind of masks, and sometimes what lurked behind them. But this guy...

"Your pronunciation is terrible," he said, chuckling and taking a seat on the bed, smirk widening when Arthur drew his knees up to his chest. "Do you remember me?" he asked, "Or were you mildly intoxicated upon our meeting also?"

"I'm not _always_ drunk, you twat," Arthur snapped irritably, and glanced up from under his fringe to examine the bloody wanker sitting beside him. French, bad hair cut (although he wasn't one to talk), blue eyes... "Bonnefoy," he said, hoping he sounded more certain than he thought. "Francis... Bonnefoy?"

The man beamed. "I am glad you remembered, mon petit," he said, tone engraciating and, bloody hell, Arthur would like to respond that he was sure that the fucking French twat's manhood was "petit"—

"Why are you in my house?" Arthur demanded suddenly, trying to clear his foggy mind. He lifted his arms to rub at his forehead, attempting to make the aching pain in his head ebb away. Honestly, was it not common courtesy to just... well, _not_ freeload off of someone and spend the night in their house when you hardly know the person? Then again, various occupants of this blasted location seemed far more sociable than citizens back in London - make eye contact with someone for over two seconds there, and you're pegged as a mugger, a rapist, or a murderer. Or a combination of all three. Here, however, you stopped for half hour chats with strangers and shared taxis with them too. It was utterly unthinkable! But staying at someone's place without permission? That was just completely—

"This is my apartment actually," the French man replied easily, rubbing his hands on his legs to generate some warmth.

Come to think of it, it was rather chilly. Arthur glanced around the room and dully noted that the radiator - a small shabby cheap little thing - looked broken and slightly blackened. Perhaps it had burnt out... But that wasn't something he should be focusing on at the moment! Strengthening his resolve and forcing a deep scowl onto his features, he settled his stern gaze upon his abductor. "_Your_ apartment?" he repeated incredulously, suddenly feeling even more exposed, but perhaps slightly safer since the strange man was clueless of his living arrangements. "What the bloody hell am I doing in _your_ apartment?"

Velvet blue eyes rolled slowly, accentuating his exasperation. Arthur bristled irritably, imagining beating the French bastard up. With a cricket bat. And a rifle. "I already told you," he murmured demurely, slinking over the sheets and trapping the Brit with his unshaven arms and a sultry, provocative smirk that Arthur found to be slightly threatening somehow. He dared not glance away, ensuring he wouldn't be seen as weak. "You were drunk and, being the chivalrous gentleman that I am, I decided to 'elp you."

The smaller man squirmed slightly, uncomfortable with the close proximity but unwilling to unfurl and push the other man away. He didn't want to _touch_ the wanker. The very _thought_ of it was utterly preposterous - he wasn't one for contact of any sort, and he was... well, he was English. What Brit in the right mind (provided it could be justified any of them were in their right minds, although that is debatable no matter what your background) would ever think of voluntarily coming into contact with such an organism? Truly, people were like viruses - always reproducing and bringing deathly consequences...

However, he was swiftly drawn out of his pessimistic musings when something brushed his jaw, weaving beneath his chin to tilt it up just slightly. And he noted, with great revulsion, that he had been _touched_. He wasn't racist - he could just be considered a bit of a sociopath, as he disliked everyone equally and _hated_ being touched. All physical contact he had ever received or given had been that of violence and had always resulted in someone getting hurt. And so, with a steely gaze, he glared defiantly up at the French man, repeating _die, die, die_ like a mantra in his head, hoping it reflected through his smouldering eyes.

But alas, the bloody idiot obviously didn't receive his obvious disdain, and instead returned his grimace with an amorous quirk of his lips. "I am sure," he whispered hotly against his lips, and Arthur pursed his own, wondering just how many germs were transferred in people's breaths. Oblivious, or perhaps choosing to ignore him, Francis continued: "that I can 'elp you further... if you will let me..." His voice sounded almost akin to a perverse _purr_, which Arthur just found downright bizarre. He had read romantic scenes in which the verb "purred" was utilised, and he just winced at imagining it. Purring reminded him of cats, and he thought they were too adorable, skillful and respectable for their reputation to be tarnished by trashy lustful words. He just couldn't comprehend why anyone would choose to speak in a _purring _way. It didn't make any sense at all, and Arthur had never felt any inclanation to be turned on by an animalistic noise.

With those bewildered and determined thoughts highlighted in his mind, the young blond shoved the other man away, lips twisting into a grimace at the feeling of chest hair beneath his fingers and the feeling of _another person's skin_. He hated the closeness. It was hard to breathe when you were so trapped. "Move away," he barked snappishly, clenching his eyes shut so that the blackness would make the small space evaporate and enlarge into a wide expanse of nothing. "Move..." he hissed again when he only felt a small shift and, with his whispered order, Francis let out a frustrated sigh and slid away from Arthur. He could finally breathe again, and greeted the oxygen supply fervently, zeal for air extremely evident as he gripped the satin sheets and gasped for it needily.

After a moment, the black finally dissolved and colour returned to his vision. _I must stop blacking out_, Arthur mused, dry and sceptical of his own admission. Honestly, his brothers would give him hell for being such a pansy. He hadn't been in the United States for a week and he'd already almost passed out because of the heat, got drunk and had to be hauled to some random guy's apartment (and a _French _guy's apartment at that), and then he had panicked because he had gotten too close. Fuck, he'd been in some fights in his time and been in strangle holds and pinned underneath a few thugs and he'd just cursed up a storm, used some underhanded trickery, and gave as good as he got. He didn't really know why he had panicked... Perhaps it was because he was here on business, trying to make a new life and wanting to give a good impression.

He almost snorted audibly at that. New life? Everybody only got one life to waste - as was his belief, cynical and hopeless as it was. He didn't believe in reincarnation or life after death or even ressurection in spite of his occult obsession. He once had believed in it, but... it just didn't work that way. Once someone died, that was it - they were gone and they weren't coming back. They weren't unhappy in death because they just ceased to exist and rotted away. You can't have a new life. You can only move on to a different part of the play and go along with it. Act your part, recite your lines, and hide everything real.

Thankfully, his contemplating was cut short when he noticed cobalt eyes boring into his own. Blinking in surprise, he hastily glared at the man and, as belated as it was, snapped, "What?" only to receive of a roll of eyes and a tut of disappointment.

"I shall not bother enquiring why you suddenly stopped responding altogether as I will be late if I give any more of my time to you," Francis responded, tone casual and glance at the clock uncaring in spite of his holier-than-thou words and haughty stance that made Arthur stiffen, offended and annoyed.

"I never _asked _for you to impart _any _of your time on me, Frog." He pushed the sheets away and stood swiftly, shaking off the pain pulsating in his head and thinking _Oh thank god_ when he noticed he had trousers on. At least the git had the decency to leave him clothed... He spun around, glowering ferociously at the blasé-looking blond, and folded his arms again. "Nonetheless, I shall feed your ego by offering a deeply resentful word of thanks for your assistance when I was..."

"Intoxicated. Inebriated. Drunk. Or pissed, in English slang," Frenchie offered helpfully, biting a fingernail as he one-handedly buttoned up a shirt, not even sparing Arthur a glance.

Embittered and exasperated, Arthur threw his hands up, saying in a high tone, "Fine, fine. Well, I tried. I tried to be appreciative in regards to the abduction, and you make fun of me. Fine, _sir_," he quipped sarcastically, glaring poisonously and gingerly sticking his hand out. "Once again, it was absolutely fan-fucking-tastic meeting you, and I hope I never have to lay eyes on your bloody blue eyes or stubble ever again."

Francis only appeared mildly shocked by his words, and soon recovered from that. An amused smirk lingering on his lips, he thread his fingers through Arthur's and pulled the Brit flush against his own body, slinking his free arm around the man's waist. Ignoring the sputtered and fiery protests, he responded in a whispery voice: "You already know my eye colour... Mon cher, that is rather gay." He chuckled, the heat of his breath hitting Arthur's exposed neck mercilessly and tickling his sensitive ears. "Then, for now, I shall bid you adieu. I am going to work and I assume you need to be somewhere also, so I shall get you a taxi. Come, cher. Let us leave," he said, pulling away from the Englishman, whose temper was bordering on murderous and urge to punch steadily rising.

Positively seething, Arthur just clenched and unclenched his fists sporadically, before screeching: "Someone as flamboyant and fucking _French _as yourself has _no_ right to call _me_ gay!"

**Act two, scene five**

Really, Arthur didn't understand America. However, in spite of that, he had to begrudgingly admit that he rather liked it. Quite a bit, actually. Whilst he disliked how the British Empire had fallen and it had lost virtually all of its colonies (Really, 'overseas territories'? Was that supposed to be the politically correct term for colonies nowadays?), he appreciated that everyone wanted freedom and progress had to be made, even if it meant separating from mother countries.**(1) **As well as that, although he found most American cuisine... repulsive, he did like a lot of the sights. The hustle and bustle of popular cities reminded him of London, but somehow more lively. It seemed as if it was a living place, not just existing in some sort of paradoxical death trap. Here, people bounded and dashed and shoved to get through crowds, bumping shoulders, shouting and reminding everyone that they were alive.

Arthur wasn't sure how it felt to live.

In London, you just... flowed. An elegant verb to depict movement, but no; London seemed like a ghost town. Yes, it was so goddamn full you can see blurs of feet all over the floor and traffic jams and congestion everywhere, but it was so _dead_. There were no smiles exchanged, a lack of communication, and just an eerie silence and absence of life above the calamity of engines and footsteps colliding urgently with the ground as people hurried to nowhere, anywhere, who knows where. Somewhere. They wanted destination so they would have a motive - a purpose for living.

Arthur... He sort of wanted a purpose. He sort of had one. He wanted to learn and teach and read. He craved both knowledge and wisdom, but also imagination and insight. He longed for factual, logical information along with poetic, philosophical speculations. He achieved all of that from reading. Reading was basically his life. That and writing, at least. He enjoyed the articulate flow of words in a novel; establishing character and then building on them and making them grow; forming a plot and progressing with subtle hints and action; making history with invigorating stories.

But... without incentive or motivation, what was the point in having a purpose? He had plenty of ideas and imagination, but he lacked... he lacked stimulation. He had nobody to enthuse over his dreams, and he knew he would never have anybody. He wasn't exactly the most attractive or amiable of people, he knew that. Besides, relationships... they were too complicated. He didn't want to be in a relationship. It would just be too troublesome, too irritating, and... too painful.

As his taxi pulled up to a grey building comparable to the rest of the city, he allowed his thoughts to drift into soft white noise, only grumbling a few complaints when the driver informed him of the price of the ride. He stepped out of the vehicle and, as soon as he did, the car sped off, almost knocking him off of his feet and sending him slamming into the blasted pavement. Too tired and lost in his thoughts to shout curse words at the bastard, Arthur simply straightened his shirt and hoped he looked confident as he stumbled into the building.

He allowed himself to depart into the confinement of his mind, drifting through the log in process as if on auto-pilot, and eventually found himself being guided to his room by the landlord. He hummed and nodded as the unnamed man attempted to lighten up the dull atmosphere with phatic talk. Finally, the man, with his thick, stubby fingers, pressed the card key into Arthur's hand and said something about contacting the reception if he needed anything, and then scuttled away to a lift**(2)**, red faced and sweaty after having taken the stairs with Arthur.

As the strange haze over his mind lifted, the Brit carefully slid the card through the odd device on the door, blinking curiously when the door unlocked. _Curiouser and curiouser_, he mused, pushing the door open lightly and pocketing the card key. Really, technology nowadays.

He drifted through unpacking and then repacking, deciding he didn't want his things openly displayed in such an untrustworthy place. Rather, he kicked the suitcase under his bed, briefly disconcerted by the lack of space between the thin mattress and the floor. He knew he didn't have enough money for a wonderful place, but really, these temporary apartments were dreadful.

Nonetheless, they had hot water, heating and electricity. And so, shedding his clothes, he decided to mull over everything and nothing beneath a flow of scalding hot water.**(3)**

**O-o-O-o-O**

**Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**So, this chapter is exceedingly uneventful and rather dull, but also rather necessary. XD; It introduces Francis a bit more and perhaps provides more insight to his character, although he's very pragmatic in this story... Let me say this - he isn't two-dimensional.**

**But yes, this chapter primarily focuses upon Arthur's pessimistic thought process. Sorry if it's very boring. I'm pretty sure a lot of people will skim read this one. XD; It's mainly setting his character and sort of addressing his opinions and quirks... I don't know if anyone will get the hints yet, but that's all right.**

**But I promise, the next chapter has AWESOMENESS INCARNATE! :DD**

**Sorry, America stole my laptop. **_**As I was saying**_**, the next chapter introduces the one and only annoying(ly adorable) Alfred F. Jones. There shall be some terrible attempts at humour, hints of pasts (and subsequently angst. I'm good with angst), mucho UST and lots of other awesome stuff.**

**Fuck, now I'm saying the word awesome. Screw you guys, I'm going home.**

**1) I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. I've seen a map of how the US sees the world, and the UK was titled "Mummy". Not even "Mommy", but "Mummy". It was so adorable and amusing. Plus, England's really a mothering type, with all the nagging and controlling. My mum's not like that, but eh. I'd be like that. ...I hope that's not an omen...**

**2) An elevator. Why did you feel the need to change 'lift' to 'elevator'? They mean the same thing... Oh, forget it.**

**3) He's burning himself intentionally. That is all I'll say. :I Thought I'd make the hint a little more obvious.**

**So other than that... WHO'S SEEN HARRY POTTER? I shall refrain from commenting 'cause I'd go on for hours. My America and I are already doing so anyway. (But bloody hell, Ron, graaawr! Y U SO OBLIVIOUS?)**

**By the way... although we don't celebrate it here, Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. I hope you all had a lovely day. c: See, for us Brits, November is mostly a cockblock for December. Or, at least, that's how my friend put it. I like November though... My friend only said that because she loves Christmas. Ahh, the most stressful bloody thing ever. Other than school. And people. And generally being alive.**

**WHOOPEE.**

**I'll try to hurry up with the next installment, especially as I'm excited to introduce America. :3 I've planned this story quite a bit, so all I've got to do is write everything! Ahaha... haha... ha. Yeah. It'll take some time. -**_**expertly dodges spears, torches, bullets, bombs and spells!**_**- Like all my other stories~**

**Thank you for reading!**

_**It's levi-O-sa, not levio-SAR.**_


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